The Reaping
by WhyAye
Summary: Another murder case for Lewis and Hathaway.  Progress is slow, and Innocent keeps finding fault with Lewis's actions.  A/N: 27 July: COMPLETE!
1. A Few Seeds

_Be not deceived; God is not mocked,_  
_for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.  
Galatians 6:7_

* * *

To say the woman is slight would be an understatement. She is tiny—well under a meter and a half—and more thin than is usually considered attractive. She appears even shorter because she stoops a bit, seeming to carry a great weight on her shoulders. This impression is occasionally emphasized by the sadness she usually keeps hidden in the depth of her eyes.

She is working in a conservatory, trimming a leaf, pinching a faded bloom or seed pod, probing the soil for sufficient moisture, turning a pot for a change of light, and always, always, checking for unwelcome insects.

She moves slowly, stiffly, as though her joints resist the movement for which they were made. But her pale blue eyes are clear; she is no older than thirty.

She frowns now at one small plant that seems reluctant to settle in and develop. She decides it must still be in shock from its long journey, and she very much hopes it will soon be happy and thrive in its new home. As she sets it back, next to a much larger specimen of the same species, she hears a noise by the door, and she looks up, startled.

The young man she sees there is the physical opposite of her. His dark, spiky hair brushes the top of the door frame and the muscles of his broad chest strain the fabric of his grey tee shirt. He approaches without a word, holding out secateurs, blades like the curved beak of a raptor, sharp and shining. He does not stop until he is directly next to her. Unafraid, she takes the secateurs roughly from him, running a thumb across the edge of one blade. It leaves a line; no doubt if she pressed harder, it would draw blood. She looks up at the young man and shows her small, pointed teeth in an ungenerous smile.

"It's good, Warren."

The man's smile in response, like the rest of him, is the polar opposite of hers. His lips part in a wide grin, his big, square teeth showing the effects of long-term, inadequate dental hygiene. Praise from her is rare.

"Don't forget the washing-up, Warren. That must be done before we go to the library."

He immediately turns and heads out of the room, pleased to be doing whatever she asks of him.

* * *

Paul Garrick leans in toward the computer screen, breathing faster as he reads through the message he has just received. If he were at home instead of here in the Headington public library, he would be able to indulge in a bit of unrestrained self-pleasure, relieving the tension in his trousers. But he doesn't dare carry on this correspondence from home; too great a chance that Herself would find it on their computer no matter how deeply he tried to bury it. Anyway, soon enough "LuvrBoyPaul"—his screen name—will be meeting "HotNWilling" in person and he can stop leaving a trail of incriminating messages. She has promised many a long, energetic afternoon in bed. He can hardly wait.

Unable to keep from touching himself as he reads, he eases his zipper open and pulls out his erection, keeping it concealed with his hands as well as he can. But he needs his right hand to type his response. So he glances about to see if that library snoop, Henry Sawyer, is anywhere around. Finding the coast clear, he begins his answer, all the while furtively stroking with his left hand.

". . . im totally turned on by ur msg & rt now while i typ im abt to creem myslf. i cant wait 2 meet u 2nite. i no the place u sed 2 meet. if u do half th things u sed, i will fall totally in luv w/u." He signs off as LuvrBoyPaul and rereads her message, his breath coming faster.

A hand falls heavily on his shoulder, startling him and completely ruining his imminent climax.

"Mister Garrick, will you please make yourself decent, sign off the computer, and follow me?" Henry Sawyer looks disinterested, but his attitude hints at enough disgust to leave little doubt that he's seen more than Paul intended.

Garrick is asked to leave, and he does so. His computer privileges are revoked. But he has established the time and place for his meeting with HotNWilling; he really has no further need of the library's Internet link. It is the library's policy to cancel the membership of computer users found abusing their privileges in this way; charges are not sought against first-time offenders. Thus, Paul Garrick's indiscretion is not brought to the attention of the Oxfordshire Police. Nonetheless, he feels an intense ill will toward snoopy Henry Sawyer, shouting some choice words and threats at him as security escort him to the door, making other patrons look up in obvious disapproval. Garrick has little doubt that in the library's after-hours, Sawyer gets off on all the leftover messages that Garrick can't figure out how to purge from the library's system. Garrick vows that someday Sawyer will pay for this perversion.

* * *

The man eases back against the hard wall of his cell. He is tired, and it shows in his eyes. Tired of being here, sure. But mostly tired of dealing with Sharpe and all his bollocks. Sharpe has no business singling the man out just because he fancied his own daughter. Lots of blokes were in the nick (and many others were not) for having diddled their own children. It was no big deal. Sharpe was using it as an excuse to stay in control, to rally the rest of the bastards by making the man into a common enemy. It was Sharpe's classic power play and, as usual, Her Majesty's Prison guards were busy wanking, not noticing that one of their charges was riding roughshod over another. Deliberately looking the other way, of that he was certain. One day, something big would go down, and they'd all be caught with their knickers 'round their knees, and there'd be hell to pay.

* * *

By this time, mid-afternoon on Friday, Detective Inspector Robert Lewis and Detective Sergeant James Hathaway have little to say to each other. They're between cases and have already caught up on what scant personal details their brief conversation rendered in the morning.

Hathaway looks up sharply, however, in response to his senior partner's long, drawn-out exhale, complete with an embedded groan.

"Something wrong, Sir?"

Lewis's eyes snap from his computer screen to Hathaway.

"Never you mind, Sergeant."

Hathaway adopts a look of mock sadness. "Must we still have secrets from each other, Sir? You know half the time I can solve what you see as an insurmountable problem in about ten minutes, if you'll only tell me all I need to know."

Lewis stares at him for a long time. His expression covers a spectrum: anger, frustration, embarrassment, defensiveness . . . ending with a bit of eyerolling. He is at last ready to cooperate.

"Look. Me daughter thinks I shouldn't be on me own so much. So she's trying to fix us up with a . . . erm, compatible ladyfriend. She's making up a . . . what d'you call it? A profile? for us with all these matchmaking web services."

Hathaway manages to not smirk. "Sounds as though she has your best interests at heart, Sir. What's the problem? All you have to do is say no if you're not interested."

"The thing is, even if I thought it a good idea—which I don't—none of them is anythin' close to what I'd be interested in. Lyn thinks I'd want someone like Val. The fact is, I would find that extremely weird. I definitely would be looking for someone not like Val, if I were looking, which I'm not."

"Ah. And I suppose it's quite awkward to tell her to stop trying to fix you up, as long as you remain thoroughly single."

Lewis smiles grimly. "She knows I'm not capable of managing this over the Internet meself. So she sees it as her duty to help me."

"Why not tell her your Sergeant is taking care of it? Maybe that would get her off your back. Here. I'll send you a link I expect she's missed. This should be all you need."

Looking askance, Lewis waits until the message from Hathaway comes through, then he clicks on the link. The flashing, hot-pink heading reads:

"FIND A LOCAL SLUT. EMAIL HER. FUCK HER TONIGHT!" Below that is a photograph of a naked woman in an unmistakably provocative pose.

Blushing furiously, Lewis clicks away from the site as quickly as he can. Hathaway is smothering giggles despite the withering glare to which he is being subjected.

"If that just loaded one of those whatsits on my computer, Hathaway . . ."

"It's just a joke, Sir. I'm in no position to criticize your incredibly inactive sex life."

"Who says it's inactive? I have a lot more 'almosts' than you do, as far as I can tell."

Then he peers at his computer with interest and speaks as if to himself. "I wonder if they have one of these matchmaking sites for someone looking for a new sergeant?"

"Oh, you'll not find another sergeant like me, Sir."

Lewis shoots a glance up, feigning surprise at being overheard. "I won't be looking for one like you, Hathaway."

Whatever it was Hathaway was going to say in response is cut off by the appearance of Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent at their doorway. She fires glances from one to the other, aware there has been some kind of bickering between them, but unable to discern what, or how serious it may be. She increases the sternness of her gaze.

"You two seem rather unoccupied for a Friday afternoon. Between cases, aren't we?"

They both know this means she has something unpleasant in mind for them. Hathaway agrees, reluctantly.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good." She fixes her eyes on the Inspector. "Lewis. Next week is Career Day at the Jobs Centre. I've agreed to send some representatives of this station to spend a few hours, chat up the benefits of a career in law enforcement. PCs Williams and Hart will be going, and DC Hooper, and I'd like a senior officer there, as well."

A pained expression crosses Lewis's face. "Ma'am, I've probably had unfriendly dealings with half those chaps. Hathaway could do it, it would be good for him to see the other side of society."

"That's exactly why he would be ill-suited for it, Inspector. The men there need to see that it's a job that can be done by someone like themselves, that no special education or privilege is needed. They need someone they can relate to."

"Ah. You mean an undereducated loser who manages to stay employed only by the grace of God." Out of the corner of his eye, Lewis sees Hathaway biting back a grin.

Her glare intensifies. "God does not control your employment, Lewis. I do. Best not to forget that. Plan to be there from noon until three on Tuesday. You four can travel together, save on expenses." She turns and swirls from the office.

The exchange of expressions between the two men renders discussion of the topic completely unnecessary. Lewis turns to note the time in his diary. But the appointment is indeed forgotten at that same moment because the telephone on his desk rings.

Five minutes later, they are on their way to the nearest prison, all teasing between them over and done. An inmate has been killed, stabbed to death by another in a fight having something to do with the snooker table.

* * *

The death is certainly murder but it does not demand much skill of detection to solve. Clifford Branson was anally raped—no doubt with the bloodstained, broken broomstick found next to his corpse—and then strangled. Fellow prisoner George Masters is not shy about taking responsibility. Boasting, even. It's clear to Lewis and Hathaway that Masters gains something by having caused Branson's death. The warden fills in the details.

"Masters is a puppet of Harrison Sharpe. Sharpe runs this ward. Sometimes his method conflicts with Her Majesty's policy, but it gets the job done."

Lewis is flabbergasted. "You turn a blind eye to one prisoner abusing another for, what? _Expediency_?"

The warden studies him, his look betraying his impression that Lewis is seriously out of touch with the realities of managing a prison in the post-global-meltdown economy.

"It's not an ideal world, Inspector." He looks sad. "It's the _real_ world. We do what we can with what we're given."

Lewis backs off, recognizing the man has to work minor miracles with extremely inadequate resources. The warden continues.

"Sharpe maintains order and discipline. If I lose an inmate or two, well . . . It's better than losing a guard." The warden sighs in heavy resignation. "And that's how the world is here." He flashes a sort of ironic grimace at the men. "How _my_ world is."

"I know, Sir." Lewis says quietly.

Accepting this as an apology, the warden reviews Branson's record. Reading from the file, he notes, "Branson was in for sexually abusing his daughter. According to the victim's statement in the PSIR—the presentence report—he had sexual intercourse with her starting when she was eight, shortly after his wife died in a car accident. The abuse continued over a course of years. He impregnated her at age twelve, and when a teacher noticed her condition, she confessed everything. Charges were brought and there was quite a public outcry. He pleaded guilty in hopes of leniency at sentencing, which he did not receive. Before the baby was born, Branson's daughter ran off. Disappeared completely. She was never located."

Lewis is clearly concerned. "Never located? She must have turned up _somewhere_. She couldn't very well go have the baby by herself."

"Well, you can check with Social Services. But it's my understanding she managed to vanish without a trace. That doesn't necessarily mean she was without _private_ assistance."

"No trace of the baby, either?"

"Of course not, Inspector. One would lead to the other. Most likely she found someone willing to purchase the baby in return for taking care of her during childbirth."

He takes them to see Branson's cell. Unlike many of the inmates, Branson has few things tacked to the wall, only a copy of the Ten Commandments and a photo of a smiling woman standing beside a Jensen-Healey convertible. Lewis gestures at the latter. "That his wife?"

"I think so, Inspector. I never spoke with him personally much, you know."

"Nah, of course not."

The two detectives finish up and return to their office. By now, it's late, especially for a Friday. They are at their desks for only a moment when Lewis clears his throat.

"Look, Hathaway. No reason this can't be written up Monday morning, eh? I'll tidy up here, you go see if you can salvage anything of your Friday night, alright?"

Hathaway is impressed with his boss's generosity. "Sir? Isn't there anything you meant to be doing tonight?"

He can see a bit of regret in Lewis's demeanor. The older man sighs before speaking. "Aye. I was to be taking Doctor Hobson out for a nice dinner. But that is long gone, now. Fortunately, she understands about our schedule. So you go ahead and be on your way." He manages a weak smile. "Weekends are for the young, after all."

"Well, uh . . . thank you, Sir."

Lewis finishes up the Branson paperwork himself in the early hours of Saturday. It's not a difficult report, after all. Cause of death is known and the person causing the death is known. And whether they consider that person Masters or Sharpe makes no difference—both are already serving life sentences. Lewis completes the report with no regrets. Branson was a despicable bastard and, in Lewis's mind, the world is better off without his corrupting presence.

He prints the report and signs it, case closed, no known relatives. The night is on its way to becoming dawn, but he dials Hobson's number anyway, getting her voice mail. "Would you call me when you get a moment, Laura? I'm really sorry about last night. But I thought maybe we could do something else yet this weekend. Okay, bye." From his tone, an eavesdropper might expect "Love you" to follow, but it does not.


	2. Taking Root

It is Monday morning, and the Kidlington stationhouse is abuzz as usual after the weekend. Hathaway is at his desk early, happily surprised to find the Branson report already completed. Lewis enters, looking rested but morose.

"Good weekend, Sir?" Hathaway ventures, despite being rather certain it must not have been.

Lewis wrinkles his brow as though Hathaway is speaking a foreign language. "Good? How could it be good? Friday night we have to work, and that cocks up me dinner out with Hobson. Saturday, she's busy with old cadavers or young doctors or something and I have nothing to do but deal with emails from Lyn, trying to match us up with any number of ladies I have no desire to meet. And Newcastle lost, three-nil, to the bloody Mackems. Tell me what could be good about any of _that_."

Hathaway has to concede the point. Usually it cheers Lewis to be talking to his daughter, but her recent matchmaking attempts seem to cancel the benefit there. "Sorry, Sir, I'll just . . ." he struggles to come up with something to do. "I guess you finished the Branson report, Sir?"

Lewis appears monumentally insulted. He hesitates before speaking.

"I am capable, Sergeant, of writing up a report for a murder with a known cause of death and a confessed killer." Hathaway finds Lewis's tone unexpectedly icy. _He's in a bit of a mood this morning._

But the Sergeant's apology is interrupted in mid-sentence by his phone.

"Yes . . . I see . . . Thanks. We'll be right there." He hangs up and responds to Lewis's openly questioning expression. "Suspicious death."

* * *

Doctor Laura Hobson greets them as they arrive at the top of the stairs, just outside the second-floor bedsit. As they don their rustling scene suits and Lewis catches his breath from the climb, she fills them in.

"Deceased is a Henry Sawyer, single, lives here alone. Well, you'd have to, wouldn't you?" The flat is indeed tiny. "Works for the Headington branch of the Oxfordshire library. When he didn't show up for work as scheduled this morning, extremely unusual for him, one of the library staffers came to check. Repeated knocks did nothing. The landlord opened the door and they found him like this." She gestures. The large corpse, wearing a vest, is lying on his back in bed, coverlet drawn up to the ribs. He looks peaceful.

She continues. "Sorry, boys, but right now it looks like a simple cardiac arrest. I'll let you know for certain later. No visible sign of foul play. Time of death, roughly Saturday night to Sunday morning." Spotting Lewis beginning to frown, she adds with a little smile, " I'll be more precise in the post-mortem, guv, I promise."

As the two detectives poke around at the various personal effects, Hobson sidles up to Lewis, laying a hand on his arm. "Robbie, I'm so sorry I didn't get back to you. I had to deal with my father this weekend, and you know how bad he's getting."

At this, Lewis brushes away his own hurt feelings and instead offers sympathy.

"'S'okay, Laura. You've got to take care of your Dad. And I was pretty knackered from being up all night Friday, anyway." He manages a weak grin. "Maybe next time, eh?"

She smiles warmly in response and busses his cheek. "You're a good man, Robert Lewis."

He smiles wryly. "I know." He is not so sure being a good man makes him as happy as he might be otherwise, but that's who he is.

* * *

By late morning, the partners are thoroughly enmeshed in work. Lewis has made the decision to treat the death as other than natural causes at least until he gets Hobson's final report. One of the neighbors was adamant that Sawyer was not at home Saturday evening—"He always helps carry up my shopping"—and another, the one living immediately below Sawyer, insisted he heard someone go up the stairs and into the flat late Sunday night. He assumed it was Sawyer and didn't look out. But, he added, Sawyer _never_ had visitors.

They collect Sawyer's employment records from the library. It is there they learn that on Friday before, he physically removed Paul Garrick from the premises and terminated Mister Garrick's membership for the official reason of "Abuse of Internet privileges."

"What does _that_ mean, in English?" Lewis asks the branch director, Emma Hocking. She turns her clear, grey eyes uneasily away.

"In the general sense, it means the person has violated the code of conduct each user agrees to before being granted Internet access."

"And in the specific sense?" Lewis refuses to let her take the easy road.

Again, her discomfort surfaces. "In specific terms, for a man of his age, it most commonly means he has been accessing pornography or other inappropriate content." She is reluctant to continue, yet her nostrils flare and pupils dilate as she does so. "Henry Sawyer notes in his logbook on Friday, 'Mister Garrick indecently exposed himself while using the computer. He was asked to leave. Rights terminated.'" In response to Lewis's half-curled lip, she adds, "It's not uncommon. Men like Paul Garrick are skilled at quickly clicking away or minimizing obscene content they may be viewing. The physical effects of their arousal, however, are not so easily concealed and it is often by this route that we find grounds for curtailing such abuse."

Hathaway interjects. "If a person intended to use the Internet for personal gratification, why come to such a public place to do so?"

"An excellent question, Sergeant. And it's one I can answer only in part. Some people use our computers because they don't have Internet access themselves, of course. Some use our computers to avoid leaving on their home computers any electronic evidence of where they have been. _Especially_ if they're being naughty. But there are some people who have a more perverse intent. They either want to get caught or they want to leave something on the computer for the next user to find. Something about the risk or the shock being the goal. It's not a thing I understand."

Lewis considers this a moment. "Would Sawyer have been privy to everything each user accesses on these computers?"

"No, Inspector. We have set up our computers to protect our users' privacy in large part. Only if Henry were purposely monitoring a particular station would he get a record of the transactions, the websites visited, and possibly the text of emails sent and received."

Lewis and Hathaway leave the library with Sawyer's work computer, a list of people who were in the library at the time Sawyer confronted Paul Garrick, and a distinct feeling of having wandered through a bit of foul muck along the way.

* * *

They are back at the office well before noon. Hathaway works over Sawyer's computer. Lewis puts his fingers to work dialing telephone numbers. Paul Garrick does not answer, nor does it appear he has voice mail. But Lewis manages to contact quite a few people. Soon, armed with a fairly short list of library staff and users who were present at the time Garrick was ejected and who are available for interviews, Lewis heads out. As he progresses through his list, he learns that Garrick had been strongly suspected of indecent conduct for some time but had managed to avoid getting caught. Several people present when Sawyer ejected him comment that they had seen him exposing himself on other occasions and describe the shouted threats Garrick made; variations of "I'll kill you," "You're going to be sorry," and "You'll pay for this," were reported. Traveling from the home of one witness to another adds to the hours for Lewis; it is after midday when he reaches the home of Sylvia and Warren Dawson, and he has had no time to eat anything. His stomach rumbles, reminding him that breakfast is long past.

Sylvia Dawson lets him in to the Victorian-era semi, and introduces him to her brother, Warren, who inspects Lewis with unabashed attention. She notices Lewis's slight discomforture and smiles tightly.

"Don't mind my brother, Inspector. He's only a child, mentally. And he can hear, but he can't speak."

Lewis is amazed by the size difference between them. And that is not the only difference he sees. She is pale, thin, with a hint of cruelty or hardness. Someone who has not experienced an overabundance of generosity in her life. Warren, in contrast, seems brimming with openness and love, or at least, a simplistic happiness. She sends him away with a flick of her hand, and focuses on Lewis's questions.

"I remember that man—'Garrick,' you said?—was getting very angry with Mister Sawyer. Said he was going to kill Sawyer. I was glad to see him get ejected. I've sat next to him on more than one occasion and I've seen what he's looking at. He noticed me looking once and instead of being shamed, as he should have been, he invited me to watch along with him." She shuddered. "He wore a wedding band, was he married?"

"_Was_, Miss Dawson?"

She backpedals. "Well, I suppose he could still be married, despite his predilections. Though how anyone could call such an arrangement a marriage is beyond me. His wife must be very . . . insubstantial? Is that the word I'm looking for? He certainly did not seem the type to honor the sacred trust that should exist between husband and wife. Though in my experience, very few men are." She assesses Lewis, her eyes traveling his full length.

"What about yourself, Inspector? Do you honor your wife and keep yourself only for her?"

His eyes narrow. "I don't have a wife."

"Ah. My mistake. You seem like the type that would."

Her telephone rings and she excuses herself to answers it. With her thus occupied, Lewis peeks around a little, noticing what looks like a beautiful conservatory off the dining room.

Her call completed, Sylvia tells him she must go. "I volunteer at the Rape Crisis Centre. There are many, many women in this city, Inspector, who have been victimized by men who seem to think any woman they can touch is their personal property. In my ideal world, a man would only be able to achieve an erection if a woman decided he should have one. Rape would be punishable by castration. Does that shock you?"

"Miss Dawson, very few things shock me any more."

She peers at him intensely, as if trying to ascertain how much of what he says is mere performance. Then, grunting in satisfaction, she slings her bag onto her shoulder and indicates the front door.

"I'm needed at the Centre immediately. Well, the need there is almost always immediate, of course. But, anyway . . ."

Lewis digs in his heels. "Um, Miss, I understand your brother was also at the library when Mister Garrick was ejected. I'd like to ask him a few questions, too."

"My brother, Inspector, does not function at his age level. I'm not comfortable leaving you here with him."

Lewis looks puzzled. "He can answer yes or no questions, right? I've interviewed children before, Miss Dawson. I promise I'll be gentle. I only want to confirm that he has nothing further to add. It's nothing that will go on record. It's just . . . sometimes people like him, like children, notice things no one else does because they focus on different things. Y'know?"

His unpretentious manner wins her over. "Alright, I see your point. Please be brief, though, he can become stressed if he's the focus of attention for too long."

Lewis smiles warmly. "I understand. Thank you, Miss Dawson."

Lewis asks Warren mostly harmless questions, what he was doing at the library, did he like to go to the library, what was his favorite thing there. Then he asks to see the conservatory, and Warren, thoroughly enthralled with this friendly, mature, male presence, takes him to it, showing the room proudly. It is very beautiful, everything there seems to be thriving. On the way back through the dining room, Lewis notices a striking photograph of a woman posing next to a small sports car. It reminds him of something he's seen before, but he can't place it.

"Oh, is this your mother?"

Warren's face clouds a bit, and he shakes his head. "Nuh, . . . nuh . . ." He seems distressed by the attention Lewis has given the photo.

"Sorry, it's alright, I'm not interested. Why don't you show me the kitchen?"

Warren brightens. The kitchen is his special domain. Here he cleans and cooks in accord with strict rules laid down by his sister. He leads the way, and when they arrive, he throws his arm out, waving, to show Lewis this is the place.

"Oh, that's grand, thank you."

Lewis spies freshly baked current buns cooling on a wire rack on the kitchen table and his stomach gives an audible growl. Warren giggles. Lewis, a little embarrassed, asks if he could please have a bun, he won't have time to eat for a while yet. Warren seems a bit nervous about this, but he wants to please this man who treats his with more kindness and respect than he has ever known. So when Lewis asks if he was told not to give anyone a bun, Warren thinks and shakes his head, No, and hands one over. It is still warm. Lewis pops it in his pocket and thanks the beaming lad.

* * *

At last back at the office, Lewis and Hathaway compare notes, the junior officer leading with his report.

"I found a folder of Garrick's email and chats saved on Sawyer's computer. Garrick was communicating regularly with one 'HotNWilling'—her screen name—who apparently was setting up a tryst with Garrick, who went by the screen name of 'LuvrBoyPaul.' Sawyer stripped out the properties and only saved the text, so there's no clue as far as what system or board HotNWilling and Garrick were using to converse. But they were planning to meet this past Friday night, the night when Branson was killed. They apparently discussed the location but those emails weren't saved by Sawyer. From what Ms. Hocking said, anything taking place when Sawyer wasn't there would escape his scrutiny."

Lewis struggles to read through the messages Hathaway shows him. "What is this, some kind of code?"

"Textspeak, Sir." Hathaway is mildly amused at Lewis's frustration. "Would you like me to translate?"

"Yeah, please."

By the time Hathaway reads the last of the saved messages, the revulsion is plain on Lewis's face. "This is someone he's never met, right? He could be arranging to meet anybody for all he knew."

"I think the risk is part of the thrill, Inspector."

Hathaway continues explaining what he has found. "Sawyer also saved some emails from HotNWilling, other than those sent to Garrick. Apparently, she was also using the library's computers, trolling for sex partners. That's the only way Sawyer would have had access to both her messages and Garrick's."

Lewis contemplates this a moment. "So this 'HotNWilling' and 'LuvrBoyPaul' were to meet Friday at the same time Branson was killed. You think there might be a connection between this and Branson's death?" He proposes this even though he does not believe it himself.

"No, not likely. Just a temporal coincidence."

Lewis stares at him blankly.

"They happened at the same time."

"Ah. Y'coulda said."

The senior officer becomes more thoughtful. "So Garrick hates Sawyer, loses his precious Internet joy because of him, threatens him publicly. Did he kill him?"

Hathaway grows equally serious. "Well, we don't know Sawyer was killed at all. But if he was, who else would want Sawyer dead? From what we can tell, he was a total loner, no friends, no women, no family. No enemies, except for people like Garrick, whose lives he only tangentially touches until the day he cuts off the Internet and ruins their lives. Garrick can't be the first person Sawyer has kicked off the computers."

"No, he wouldn't be." Lewis's mind is operating at capacity now. "Okay, Sergeant. Let's say Garrick is pissed off, he vows revenge on Sawyer, and he kills him. Why do it without leaving a trace? If you're trying to teach someone a lesson, wouldn't you want to, I dunno, inflict a little pain? Stretch it out a bit?" He huffs in frustration. "We need Hobson's report, what the bloody hell is taking her so long?"

As if she can hear him, Doctor Hobson calls at that moment. "Lewis? If you two want to come over, I can show you all that I know about Henry Sawyer."

Lewis hangs up and smiles slightly at Hathaway. "Let's go."

* * *

"Well, gentlemen, it seems to be a simple heart attack. Sorry to disappoint you. None of the tests has detected any toxins, so it seems he was not poisoned." She eyes them both directly. "_But_ the tests can only detect the specific substances we check for. So if it was an unusual poison, and many poisons mimic the effects of a heart attack, it would go undetected."

She assesses the impact this news has had. Hathaway appears thoughtful, Lewis looks as weary as Hobson feels.

She continues, studying the senior officer while she talks. "Death was around midnight Saturday night. Okay?"

Lewis is thinking, slowly. He starts to say something, stops, starts again, then falls silent, chewing the inside of his cheeks.

"Lewis, _what_?" She is trying to hide her tired impatience, but fails miserably.

"It's only . . . one of Sawyer's neighbors said he heard Sawyer come up the stairs Sunday night."

"No way. Absolutely, no way. Anyway, Sawyer didn't die in that position in bed, the blood pooling is all wrong. However he died, someone repositioned him and laid him neatly in bed, possibly bringing his corpse up to the flat from the ground level."

Lewis blinks. "That's a lot of stairs. It would have taken someone strong to get him up all those stairs."

"Well then, if that's what happened, I suppose that would narrow your list of suspects. But he could have died somewhere else in the flat, too. That's for you two to figure out." She glances cheekily from one man to the other, then makes it clear by her actions that she still has a corpse to put away and a fair amount of cleaning up to do. The two detectives excuse themselves and return to their office.

They bounce ideas off each other as they sit, frustrated by a lack of a clear theory.

"Maybe Garrick frightened Sawyer into having a heart attack, and Garrick panicked and moved the body rather than call 999."

Hathaway looks extremely skeptical at that. "Carried him to the second floor and tucked him neatly into bed?"

Lewis concedes it is highly unlikely. "Must be some kind of poison forensics doesn't know to search for, can't detect."

Hathaway frowns a moment, then concedes. "Well, that would explain the means of foul play. But _why?_ And _who?_"

Lewis is exasperated. "You expect me to have all the answers?"

Hathaway, equally exasperated, snaps back. "Of course not, Sir. Why should this time be any different from the usual?" But he knows he's exceeded his boundaries, however loose they are, as soon as he speaks, and he immediately averts his eyes. "Sorry, Sir."

Lewis's glare softens a little, and Hathaway redirects the conversation. "So tell me how you did with the interviews."

Lewis reports on the general result, that Garrick threatened Sawyer with death and several lesser punishments. Although he is not sure why, he specially describes Sylvia and Warren Dawson, how militant she was about men abusing women and how innocent and childlike her brother was.

He is about to describe the conservatory when Chief Superintendent Innocent comes crashing through their doorway.

"LEWIS! What _were_ you thinking?" She waves a newspaper, the headline screaming about prisoners dying because prison guards are letting the prisoners have their way and letting them run amok. "I thought you knew better than to talk to the press about prison matters, Lewis. This demonstrates a shocking lack of judgment."

Lewis swallows hard, pinches himself severely on the back of his hand, where she will not notice, lets the pain from that sink in a little, and at last responds.

"Ma'am, I have not spoken to _any_ press person about this case. I would not." It takes nearly a quarter of an hour for him to convince her that this might be so. After she leaves, still not satisfied, Lewis shakes his head at his desk.

"Can you believe that? She always thinks the worst of me. Why do I bother?"

Hathaway is silent. He has no answers and is equally shocked at the Chief Super's immediate assumption that Lewis was at fault.

"Why don't you simply tell her she's being unfair and that she regularly treats you far worse than she treats the other officers?"

Lewis stares. "You . . . you're . . . taking the mickey, right?"

Hathaway smiles _very_ slowly.

"See? You _are_ a good detective."

* * *

About the time it starts looking as if they could be going home soon, a call comes in. A body has been found. They look at each other resignedly and head for the car park. As Lewis signals the locks on the car, he checks their destination with Hathaway, who has the details. The address is familiar of late, but it takes him a moment to remember why.

"That's Paul Garrick's address. Who phoned that in?"

Hathaway checks the note. "It says 'Woman called to report finding her husband dead. Caller did not identify self, hung up too soon.'"

"Hysterical, most likely. Imagine coming home and finding your spouse dead." Lewis muses no further; he's come close enough to that scenario that his tongue stops working and his mind veers away from the thought.

But Eileen Garrick is not hysterical. In fact, she seems irritated at the disruption, if anything. She has returned from what was a lovely holiday weekend at Lyme Regis and had not been looking forward to coming home anyway. Finding the corpse of her husband made it worse.

They take a quick peek at the body and, seeing Doctor Hobson still at work, Lewis tries questioning the new widow in the form of some friendly conversation. "Off visiting family, then?"

"No, Inspector. It was a romantic weekend with my lover." It takes a moment before he's certain she is serious, but she continues on her own. "Paul and I had reached a tacit understanding in our marriage. He insisted on a series of sordid one-night stands with total strangers, so I insisted on having my own fun with a very handsome young man who works for me. I think Paul thought I was unaware of his indiscretions, but he was happy enough for me to be busy and out of the house. Neither of us was interested in divorce and this worked out most conveniently for both of us."

Swallowing his distaste, Lewis presses further. "Did you know the names of any of his . . . erm, dates?"

"Certainly not, and it wouldn't surprise me if he didn't, either. As long as she had holes in all the right places, and was willing to let him poke his thing into all of them, that was good enough for him."

"Do you know how he met these women?"

"I really haven't given it any thought. I suppose he chatted with them over the Internet or something, though I never found any evidence of that on our computer."

Doctor Hobson, done with her investigation at last, approaches from the bedroom where the corpse was found. She checks the two men to see if they are acting as a team. Her reports are always easier if the Inspector and the Sergeant are operating on the same wave length.

Satisfied by what she sees, she directs them to follow her to the bedroom, where she sums up the scene. "Well, this looks a lot like Sawyer's death. Garrick didn't die here in bed. But death in this case occurred before Sawyer's—Friday night, I'd say. Saturday noon at a push. No obvious signs of foul play, standing here one might think it could be a simple heart attack."

Lewis rolls his eyes and complains. "Doctor. Don't tell me you think someone is going around moving the corpses of heart attack victims for amusement?"

She stares at him intently, their eyes locking a second or two longer than professionally necessary, or so it seems to Hathaway as he watches them. At last Lewis breaks the deadlock, averting his gaze.

"There's something more, isn't there? Please say yes, Doctor."

She smiles for him. "Yes, Lewis. Even if they're garden-variety heart attacks, someone _is_ moving the bodies post-mortem, giving you boys something to do. And with this one, there's an added curiosity." She can see she has the full attention of the two detectives, and her smile twists a bit cruelly. She peels back Garrick's bedcovers, and both men inhale sharply in unison.

"As you can see, someone cut off his penis, some time after he died."

Hathaway hunches over a little and turns away. Lewis shudders involuntarily. Hobson takes a few moments' wicked amusement in watching the visceral squirming of the detectives, then replaces Garrick's covers. "I'll let you know when my report is ready, gentlemen."

* * *

They return to the office shortly afterward. Lewis is greatly disturbed by the cavalier attitude of Garrick's wife and outraged by the couple's charade of a marriage.

"It could have been _her_ that cut off his . . . y'know. She seems to have despised him and his open-trouser approach to women. Can't say I'd blame her. But I think we need to take a closer look at her. Find her 'very handsome young man' and see if he backs up her story. And whether he's capable of moving Garrick's corpse."

Hathaway considered this. "But she didn't seem to care very much. And mutilating a corpse is a crime, why do that when he's already dead?"

"Trying to impress her young man?"

Hathaway gives him a skeptical scowl.

"Okay. Well, what about HotNWilling? Garrick was supposed to meet her Friday night, wasn't he?"

Again Hathaway thinks a moment. "She sounded so eager to get acquainted with that particular part of his anatomy, though. Why cut it off?"

"A souvenir?" Lewis keeps hypothesizing. "Maybe she has a boyfriend and he got wind of their assignation, kept her home, and surprised Garrick so much he had a heart attack?"

"What, then brought him home, laid him out nicely, and cut off his pride and joy? That was a bad enough idea with Sawyer."

"Maybe Garrick was going to meet her at his home, the boyfriend catches him earlier, Garrick has a heart attack, and the boyfriend sets him up for HotNWilling to find when she arrives."

James shakes his head. "I can't buy any of that. The only thing we know for certain is that Garrick didn't kill Sawyer. Back to square one on him, too."

"Are these two related somehow?" Lewis scowls in his confusion. "I wish we could find HotNWilling. I bet she could fill in a lot of our blanks."

Hathaway's expression turns a bit naughty, and Lewis notices, and frowns. "Don't say it, Sergeant. Don't even think it." For once, Hathaway behaves.

It's getting late and Lewis sends Hathaway home. "You'll probably do more good thinking about the case there than fiddling around with anything here. We need a brilliant idea, James. Go pour yourself a nice glass of wine, put on some quiet music and put your brain to work. See what you can do, alright? I'm just going to catch up with Lyn . . ." His tone indicates that he would rather do that with a bit of privacy.

Hathaway takes the hint. "See you in the morning, then, Sir."

After Hathaway shuts down his computer and leaves, Lewis sits and stares at his monitor, willing it to provide inspiration. His stomach growls and he remembers the current bun in his pocket. He takes a few bites. It's not great, tastes a bit off, and Lewis wonders if maybe the currents were off or the butter starting to go rancid. He pops it back into his pocket and starts plugging his notes into the file. When that is done, he answers Lyn's emails proposing several females she thinks "sound interesting." They do not. They all seem terrifically stable, staid, and boring.

Feeling uncharacteristically adventurous, Lewis reopens the link Hathaway sent him and starts scrolling though the come-ons and lascivious poses. He picks the category "Mature," figuring that's the one that applies to him, given that he wouldn't know what to do with a twenty-year-old. But even with that selection, the ages range considerably. Some women appear to be no more than thirty, while others are white-haired matrons. He supposes the site's target audience is a decade or three younger than he is, and a thirty-year-old woman would then qualify as "Mature." Many of the screen names are intended as either invitations or descriptions of favorite activities. He scrolls through, shaking his head: DoMeNow, WetNWild, ILikeItRuff, and dozens of others. The poses inevitably show the woman alone and either touching herself suggestively or thrusting her body toward the camera, or both, or they show the woman performing some sort of sex act on at least one anonymous penis, always hard and always large. Lewis closes the site in disgust. How anyone could find such unemotional carnality arousing he cannot understand. At last he shuts down his computer and calls it a night.


	3. Fell Flowers

The two are back in the office the following morning, Lewis having arrived first for once. Hathaway is combing through the list of all persons having computer privileges at the library. Lewis is studying the ceiling, frowning.

"Y'know, Hathaway, I can't get that cheating bastard Garrick out of me head. And his wife is no better. They treated their marriage as if it meant nothing, made a total mockery of the special thing it's supposed to be. I mean, people can make mistakes but it was as if they went out of their way to destroy their marriage. Didn't make any effort at all."

Hathaway scowls at him. He's trying to concentrate on the list of names, and Lewis's chattiness is very disruptive to his thoughts.

Lewis does not appear to notice. "That Sylvia Dawson would have a thing or two to say about it. She's so self-righteous, so high-and-mighty about 'the sacred trust between husband and wife.'" He adds the quotation marks with his fingers. "She acts so disapproving of Garrick and men of his sort who lack self-control. It's not as if she knows anything about it. It's so easy to be critical of other people messing up their marriage when you haven't tried it yourself, y'know?"

"Well, I _don't_ know, actually, Sir. I know nothing about either being married or messing it up. And I don't imagine you know much about the latter, either." He knows the last comment was a bit snippy, but he's hoping Lewis will shut up and let him work. The older man seems a bit hyper this morning, weird even, and Hathaway wonders if he was here all night and is now experiencing the effects of either sleep deprivation or a caffeine rush.

"Oh, aye, is that what you think? Well, you don't know everything about me, do you, Sergeant? It so happens I know a lot about messing up a marriage, I did it meself once, didn't I? Spent too much time on a project at work with DS Breckenridge—Juliet, she was—pulling some all-nighters together for this bloody case for Morse. And working so close together like that, I found meself falling head-over-heels for her. One night we got a breakthrough on the case and we kissed. It was intoxicating and all I knew was that I didn't want it to end. Everything was so exciting, so wonderful, being with her, and I knew what we had was a unique, special thing. Of course, now I know everyone feels that way when they get involved in an affair. But I didn't know that at the time, and I thought, God, no one else has ever felt this fantastic, been this much in love. We never technically . . . y'know, had _sex_, but we did about everything else. I convinced meself as long as Val never found out and as long as I didn't actually . . . put _that_ in _there_, then it wasn't cheating and it wouldn't hurt her. But it _was_ cheating, a'course, it was betrayal, pure and simple, and it _did_ hurt her, and would have done, even if she never found out. Our third night together I realized how much I wanted Juliet, wanted to make love to her, and that's when I knew what I was doing was all terribly wrong. The next night I told Val, confessed everything. I felt so horrible. That's the hardest four words to say to your spouse, y'know: 'We need to talk.' It devastated her. She made me sleep on the sofa for a long time after that. I expected her to want to be rid of me but she still loved me and forgave me. I was so lucky. But she put her foot down, insisting one of us transfer to another station. Morse wouldn't let me go so Juliet ended up getting sent to the Met. Aw, I wouldn't mind finding someone like Juliet now but I promised Val I would never talk to her again so I can't go look her up or anything. I mean, never is never, and I told meself I'd never break another promise to Val. But someone _like_ her would be nice. She was little and blonde, not at all like Val. A bit of a smart-aleck, funny, strong, smart, not the least bit squeamish, but sweet, too." At last he sighs a bit sadly and stops talking for a moment.

Hathaway can only blink in response. He is utterly stunned at the personal revelation, shocked by both what Lewis did and that he told James about it.

But Lewis is not done talking. He switches gears, and keeps jabbering on.

"Y'know, I was looking at that site last night, that one you sent me the link for? that site, and I was looking at it and I picked 'Mature,' 'cos that seemed like where I should be looking, and I was reading all those names and stuff . . . on that site you sent me, that website? And I was reading those names and I saw something that made me think of the case . . . something on that website but I can't remember, but it was something there, something on that site . . . I was reading all those names and those pictures and all . . . I was looking at that website and I saw something . . . something made me think about the case, I don't know what anymore . . . I can't remember what, but it was that site, all those names . . ."

His voice is starting to crack, and Hathaway is staring at him in growing alarm. There is a manic look about him, his pupils are huge and his face is turning red, his fingers flexing randomly.

"Whoa, everything's gone all green, Hathaway, did you see that? It's all green and what's that thing there?" He points to the space behind James, which looks perfectly ordinary and not at all green.

"What _is_ that? And now it's all orange! And what the fuck are these?" He plucks at his desk as if trying to pick up things that aren't there. His breathing is labored and now his voice stops altogether even though he still tries to speak.

"_Sir?_"

Lewis no longer seems aware of his sergeant's presence, he's gazing vaguely around the office, breathing hard. Panicking, Hathaway whips out his phone and calls 999, requesting an ambulance. After that he calls the desk sergeant to tell him an ambulance is on the way, and please direct them back to his office. When that is done, all he can do is watch Lewis struggle to breathe, bending over as if reaching for his shoes or trying to puke. Then Lewis collapses onto the floor, twitching spasmodically, and Hathaway rushes over, loosening Lewis's tie and shirt collar, rapidly losing the battle to stay calm.

It seems like hours, but in minutes, Hathaway hears the emergency crew bringing the gurney down the corridor. He leaps to his feet, both to get out of their way and to wave them into the correct office. The crew captain assesses the situation, peering closely at Lewis, and tells one of the technicians to hand him the activated charcoal and set up a saline drip. The other tech is taking Lewis's vital signs. The captain squats next to Lewis, making eye contact with him and speaking quietly.

"It's all reet, laddie. Ye'll be fine. What hev ye gotten into, eh?" He looks up at Hathaway. "Your guv'nor's been eatin' nightshade, from the look o' it."

At that moment, Lewis heaves to his side and vomits on the floor. The captain studies the puddle and turns calmly to Hathaway. "Collect tha' will ye, lad? We'll need to check it." Hathaway rushes to fetch a suitable container and scrapes what he can into it. The slurry has what look like raisins in it. _Nightshade?_

The captain sits Lewis up and gives him a measure of a thick liquid to drink. "Tha's reet, laddie. Doon wi' it." He glances up. "He's been talkin' a pack o' nonsense, eh?" Hathaway nods. "A classic sign. Well, dinna believe a word o' it, he'll have been hallucinatin'. Barkin'. Gone doolally."

They load him into the ambulance and speed away. Hathaway follows to the infirmary, but it is clear he will not be able to see Lewis for some time. He waits until he stops shaking, cradling a cup of tea from the vending machine without drinking it. As he at last decides to head back to the office, Hobson calls to tell him her report on Garrick is ready. Hathaway goes directly to her lab.

"Morning, Doctor, what joy?"

The missing half of the team is immediately apparent. "Where's Lewis?"

"He erm . . . he was taken to the infirmary in an ambulance this morning. The crew captain thinks he was poisoned with nightshade."

"Nightshade? Where would Lewis get that? Was it serious?"

"Well, it looked serious to me. He was gasping and convulsing and all. Is it sometimes not serious?"

"In small doses, it doesn't do much."

"It's not . . . permanent, is it? He was raving mad." He can't keep the quiver out of his voice.

"No, James, I'm sure he'll be alright." Her tone is less convincing.

"Hey, Doctor. Any chance Garrick or Sawyer was poisoned with nightshade?"

"No, it's one we check for. It would have been found in the regular course of the exam. And they didn't show any of the classic symptoms, the dilated pupils I would have seen. And speaking of Mister Garrick . . ."

In the course of her report, she points to the places where the blood pooling was all wrong for the way he was lying in bed.

"No history of heart trouble, no indication that he was a likely candidate for cardiac arrest. I can't find any evidence that he had sex before he died, but then I'm missing the main source of evidence on that matter. He'd had a bite to eat and a little wine, nothing of note."

She assesses Hathaway's squeamishness level. "His, erm . . . 'amputation' shall we say? happened after his corpse was moved. Otherwise there'd have been blood leaking out. Interestingly, it was cut off with a two-bladed instrument, not a knife but more like a scissors, that's unusual. No known toxins were detected in any of the tests."

"Doctor, don't I remember something similar not so long ago, an unexplained death with amputated genitals?"

"Oh, yes, there was one about a year ago, I think it was. Your lot never solved it, as I recall. Over the years we've had a thin but fairly steady stream of such mutilated corpses with unexplained or ambiguous causes of death. You might do well to look into those."

He smirks. "Ah, thanks, Doctor. I never would have thought of that."

She twists a small smile. "Will you let me know what happens with Lewis?" Her worry is clear.

"Of course, as soon as I hear. We'll go see him together, alright?"

"Thanks, James."

* * *

When he is back at his desk, Hathaway decides to see if he can figure out what there is on the website that Lewis was trying to point him toward. He hopes all that babbling about something being there was not simply mad ramblings. Making sure his speakers are off and angling the screen away from the office door, he opens the website, its hot-pink headline fairly screaming at him.

Clicking on "Mature," as Lewis mentioned, he scrolls through page after page. He can't help thinking that either he's missing the clue or Lewis had more stomach than James would have thought to make it through so many screens of women thrusting their private parts at a camera. If any of the other detectives were to learn what he and Lewis were working on, there would be no end to the teasing and the team would likely lose all credibility.

Finally he sees it: _HotNWilling_. One of the available females. Her photo shows her private parts clear enough; her face is less clear and he can't make it out very well. Probably not her best feature. She cannot be emailed directly; instead, she will message desirable men who put contact information in their profiles. Hathaway sets up a profile, using the screen name "Lookin4Luv." He uses his own physical characteristics in case he actually meets her at some point. For "Turn-ons" and "Turn-offs," he tries to match Paul Garrick as closely as he can and, like Paul, he indicates he is married. After that, all he can do on that front is wait for the bait to be taken.

James then turns his attention to looking up similar deaths. Before he gets much done, the Chief Super comes knocking at the door. She is not happy.

"When were you planning on telling me that Lewis left in an ambulance this morning?"

"Sorry, Ma'am. I guess I assumed you'd been told."

She frowns more deeply. "I _was_ told, James. But not by you. You should have checked with me anyway. As you may recall, Lewis was to participate in Career Day this afternoon. In light of his absence, I'm asking you to step in."

"Ma'am, I'm working on a pair of murders."

"As I am well aware, Sergeant. And not making very much progress, from what I can see." She crosses her arms in front of her. "I have promised the Jobs Centre three constables and an officer. It's only for three hours, Hathaway. You _will_ be there." She strides back to her office.

Gritting his teeth, Hathaway works on his search for similar cases until shortly before noon, when he meets up with the constables assigned to attend Career Day. For the next three hours, they answer questions ranging from genuine inquiries to rude insinuations. At one point, the two PCs go to find tea for the four of them and Hathaway is left with DC Hooper. The man has been a constable for his entire police career, which spans more than two decades. Hathaway is not entirely comfortable with him, knowing Hooper is envious of Hathaway's rapid advancement through the ranks. But Hooper has never been openly hostile and James never takes umbrage at the ribbing Hooper gives him about it. So with a bit of trepidation, Hathaway takes advantage of the lull in job seekers to see if Hooper can answer a few of the questions he's been pondering.

"Hooper, you were here when Inspector Lewis was a Sergeant, weren't you?"

Hooper squints, puzzled at Hathaway's unexpected inquiry. "Oh, aye, back when 'e was bagman for Morse. Sure, I was 'ere."

"Did you ever hear, ah, rumors about a DS Juliet Breckenridge?"

Hooper's eyes flick away. "Maybe." He peeks in Hathaway's direction. For once, he knows something Hathaway does not, and the lure is irresistible. "You mean about 'er and the boss?"

"MmmHmm."

"That was a long time ago, Sergeant. Why bring it up now?"

"Someone else mentioned it. Said he thought they had a bit of a thing. I find that incredibly hard to believe."

Hooper huffs. "_Who_ mentioned it? At the time, everyone agreed that even if it was true, it was so unlike 'im, 'n' 'e's such a lovely bloke, everyone was going to act as if it never 'appened."

Hathaway has to push. "But _did_ it happen?"

Hooper scowls. "All I know is they seemed awfully chummy, and some people thought they were, y'know, spending the night together. And then she disappeared fast as you like, which was very odd. But the boss neither confirmed nor denied it, as they say, and there was never any proof. As far as I'm concerned, until 'e tells me otherwise, it didn't 'appen. And if you're any friend of 'is, you'll do the same." He frowns more. "I can't believe someone said something. The bastard."

The return of the two PCs puts an end to the conversation, and the detectives sip their tea wordlessly. Hathaway mulls over what he has learned. Not proof positive, but everything fits with the way Lewis told the story. Still, as Hooper said, it was so unlike him. And there was no proof. Maybe what Lewis had expressed in his delirium was more fantasy than fact. James would never know without confronting the man outright.

* * *

By late afternoon, Hathaway has assembled a small stack of files representing cold cases involving corpses with genital amputation occurring after death and with ambiguous causes of death. All the victims were men, most were married. In some cases, poisons were detected, but not in all. He starts a chart of the cases and barely has entered the first when comes a sharp knock on the door.

The Chief Super stands there, again with arms folded and a frown on her face. Hathaway groans inwardly. _What now?_

"Sergeant, IT reported to me this afternoon that you and Inspector Lewis have both been using your office computers to access _pornography_ during work hours, as well as after hours. Would you care to explain that to me?"

Hathaway exhales. "Ma'am, we're trying to contact this woman who may well be the last person to see Paul Garrick alive. She uses a porn site to meet men; it's how she and Garrick communicated. I've set up a fake profile to try to lure her out of hiding. She's out there, somewhere, but she never answered the appeal." He checks to see if she is accepting this explanation.

She furrows her brow. "Well, that makes some sense. You should have updated the whiteboard, there's nothing on it about this."

"Inspector Lewis was afraid some of the other officers might see it as license to check out inappropriate websites on work time, Ma'am." He's misattributing the concern, but the threat is real, he knows.

"Yes, well. He's probably right. I must say, my first thought was IT must have the wrong office. You two are the _least_ likely of anyone to be doing this type of thing for your own pleasure. Be sure to keep me updated personally, if there's anything else you're not writing on the board." Her eyes flick to the empty chair across from Hathaway. "Any word on Lewis yet?"

"No, Ma'am. I hope they call soon."

"Let me know that, too, when it happens, Sergeant."

* * *

Less than an hour later, the doctor calls to let Hathaway know Lewis is well on his way to recovery and Hathaway can come see him, although he is likely to be sleeping. Hathaway reports this to Innocent, then calls Doctor Hobson, arranging to meet her there.

On arrival, Hathaway and Hobson locate the treating doctor for his report.

"As the ambulance captain surmised, your boss was poisoned with deadly nightshade. That is to say, atropine, hyoscyamine, and scopolamine were in his system, and the sample of his vomitus indeed included berries from the deadly nightshade plant. Is he taking any prescription medications, do you know?"

"Prescriptions, no. Not that I know of. Maybe a sleep aid."

"Is he a gardener, or might he have eaten anything from anyone's garden?"

"No way, not a gardener. I don't think he knows anyone who grows fruits or vegetables."

"Well, if he's unfamiliar with plants, perhaps he could have mistaken nightshade berries for something else, blueberries, gooseberries? Anyway, he should be able to go home in the morning. Symptoms such as enlarged pupils and minor delirium may recur over the next week or so, but not to worry. He won't go into convulsions again."

The doctor goes back to his patients, leaving James and Laura in the corridor outside Lewis's room.

"Ready, Doctor?"

She nods. Hathaway pushes the door open, and they both enter. Lewis is lying on his side. He's pulled his pillow down in front of him and is embracing it like a lover, both arms wrapped around it. He nuzzles it with his cheek in his sleep. Hathaway snorts quietly at the sight, and Laura pokes him in the ribs.

"Don't laugh, James. It's cute."

"Cute? He probably sleeps like that every night." He can't stop sniggering.

"Mmm, probably does." Her reply is tinged with sadness, and it sobers Hathaway up a little.

Hearing their voices, Lewis stirs, gives the pillow a squeeze, and flutters his eyes open, peering around. His pupils are still dilated, lending him a little-boy innocence as he blinks the room into focus. He breaks into a smile when he recognizes his visitors, and he sits up, stuffing the pillow behind him without embarrassment. Laura steps forward and takes his hand.

"How are you feeling, Robbie?"

"A little dopey. What happened? I mean, they told me I was poisoned. But I don't remember much, except . . ." He trails off, his eyes focusing on some distant point. "I remember there was something I had to tell you, Hathaway. Something I found out. But I can't remember what."

"You told me about finding HotNWilling on that website." This raises Hobson's eyebrows, but she doesn't interrupt, and James continues. "I set up a profile, trying to match Garrick as closely as I could. I've gotten some traffic already, but not her." His eyes shift toward Hobson's slightly amused, curious expression. "We're trying to find a murderer. So don't laugh."

Lewis picks up on what Hathaway is saying. "Good work. If she's using the library's computers, she may give us the link between Sawyer and Garrick." Lewis is pensive a moment. "Erm . . . did I say anything else? I sort of remember some weird kind of dreams . . . something about . . . marriage?"

Hathaway can see a deep unease in his eyes.

"No, Sir. You just babbled incoherently and then lost your voice and didn't say anything after that, obviously."

Hathaway feels a twinge of guilt at the lie, but Lewis is so clearly relieved, he knows it's better that Lewis thinks his secret is still safe. And it _is_ still safe; Hathaway will never tell anyone. Anyway, as the ambulance captain said, the poison-induced chatter was most likely no more than the ranting of a madman.

Soon after, Lewis's attention begins to wander and they leave so he can rest. Hathaway goes back to the office, and checks his profile for new messages. His pulse increases when he sees HotNWilling has invited him to message her. She wants to meet the next day for a little of what she calls "afternoon delight."


	4. Fruit of the Tree

On Wednesday morning, Jean Innocent is at the hospital to pick up Lewis when he is discharged. Lewis has not expected this.

"I thought James would come for me."

"I wanted a word with you first."

"Ah." He waits with uneasy patience for her to continue.

But she is silent until they are seated in her car and she starts the engine. She does not, however, put it in gear.

"IT reported to me that you have been accessing pornography on your office computer, Lewis. I'd like to hear your explanation."

He blushes a little. "It's related to our inquiry, Ma'am. One of the victims used the website to contact a woman. We're trying to find her."

She nods. "That much, at least, is consistent with what Hathaway said." Then her eyes narrow. "Monday night you bookmarked the profiles of _three_ individuals, according to IT. Why those three?"

His face goes blank. "I have no idea, Ma'am. I don't recall doing that."

"I see." She scrutinizes him, assessing his credibility. Then her voice takes on a more gentle tone. "Robbie, I hope you don't take this the wrong way. I only ask this as a friend. Are you . . . lonely? For a woman, I mean. Is that why?"

His jaw drops in shock. "Ma'am!" He's furiously embarrassed. "That's not something my friends would ask me." He struggles to contain his temper. "I would never go to a website like that for my own personal use. I can't believe you thought that." He glares out the window, refusing to look in her direction, and huffs.

She sets the car in motion, heading toward the station. After several minutes of silence, she speaks again. This time her tone is brighter. "About Monday afternoon, Lewis. I should have checked with you before assuming you had spoken to the press. You're one of the few officers I have who rarely causes me any problems that way."

He swallows his anger at this pleasant surprise. "Apology accepted, Ma'am."

She frowns deeply. "That was simply a statement, Lewis, not an apology. There is no reason for me to apologize for anything I have said to you."

"No, Ma'am." And he smiles wryly at the window, shaking his head slightly. "No reason at all."

* * *

Hathaway seems relieved when Lewis at last returns to their office. "I thought it would be a little earlier, Sir. Why did they wait until half eleven?"

Lewis grimaces. "They wouldn't let me go until they were certain I could pee, alright? Apparently, that's one of the effects of the poison. And it doesn't make it any easier when I know everyone's waiting for me to do it." He studies his partner, puzzled. "Where did I get that stuff, Hathaway? I don't go around eating berries off of strange plants. And the doc said it was more than the berries. Somehow I had eaten some ground-up seeds as well." He shakes his head, bewildered. "I still feel as though I can't remember a lot. Or can't put two thoughts together, more like."

"Well, Sir, you should probably rest some more." He ignores Lewis's snort of derision. "I won't be in the office, anyway. In half an hour, I will be meeting with HotNWilling for a little 'afternoon delight.' Doesn't that sound inviting?"

"Oh, aye? How far are you going to let that go?" He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

James rolls his eyes. "My afternoons with you are all the delight I need. I plan to identify myself more or less immediately and see how much information I can get out of her voluntarily. If she doesn't cooperate, I may decide she tried to interfere with our inquiry by not stepping forward after the appeal went out."

Lewis is satisfied with this answer. "Maybe now we can find out what Garrick was involved in and how that connects with Sawyer." He furrows his brow. "Aren't you concerned at all that the person you meet will turn out to be a seven-foot-tall, male wrestler with a chip on his shoulder?"

Hathaway considers this. "I suppose that's possible. But who would bother? And we're meeting in a public enough place, the Six Bells over on the Eastern Bypass. So if _she_ turns out to be a _he_, I can simply excuse myself when the questioning is over and be on my way."

"Stay in sight of people, alright? Don't go anywhere with her, even if she _is_ a she." He checks to ensure Hathaway is taking him seriously. "Yeah? James?"

"Yes, Sir." Said with an attitiude.

Lewis shakes his head at Hathaway's cheekiness. "Alright, hand me those old case files. I may as well get working on that."

After Hathaway leaves, Lewis plows through the files for over an hour, but he soon realizes he doesn't know enough about poisons to see any patterns in the cases. He scowls tightly, then picks up the phone.

"Hi, it's me. D'y'have a minute, Doctor? I was wondering if you could give me a hand with some old cases."

"Of course, Inspector. Whenever is convenient."

"Well, _now_, if that's alright."

She pauses a beat. "I'm always happy to see you, Robbie."

He's not sure why that pleases him so much, but it does.

* * *

Hathaway steps into the pub, stopping immediately inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. A moment later, he scans the tables, looking for a floppy, purple sunhat.

_There_.

The small woman underneath the hat lights up when she sees Hathaway's recognition of the talisman. She waves him over, smiling broadly.

"Hi, you must be Lookin4Luv, is that right?"

James smiles openly in response. "And I hope I've found it. Are you HotNWilling?"

"Ooh, am I ever!" She winks naughtily and holds out her right hand. "It's Celeste. Sit down, I got you a beer. I hope that's alright."

Hathaway takes her hand in greeting. "James. Beer is always alright." He sits next to her and takes a long sip from his glass. He's working, yes, but he's loath to turn down a free beer. And he's not yet ready to blow his cover.

"So, what led you to my profile, Celeste?"

She grins wickedly. "I like my men long, tall, and married. And if your answers were honest, you're all three. It appears you were telling the truth about at least two of those." Her eyes flick first to his left hand, where James wears a borrowed ring, then to the top of his head, then down to his lap. Keeping her eyes there, she licks her lips with the tip of her tongue and moves closer until her thigh is in contact with his.

He quickly takes another swallow of beer. _Relax, man_.

He stretches out his arm and puts it around her shoulder. "So tell me. What is so attractive about married men?"

"No worries about long-term commitment. I prefer one-night stands. Or, one-afternoon stands."

James looks disappointed. "You mean, today is it? My one chance for true bliss?"

Her laugh sounds genuine. "You didn't say you had a sense of humor. If I _really_ like you, maybe we can do this again."

He lays his free hand on her thigh and moves it slowly upward. "What do I need to do to get you to like me?"

She responds in kind, and her hand is warm on his leg. "That's a good start, James. Tell me why you like me better than your wife."

"What wife?" He leans down and his lips claim hers, his tongue pushing against her teeth.

She pulls back. "Not _here_, James, they'll kick us out before we've finished our beers."

He sits back, retracting his arm from her shoulders, and looks around a bit guiltily. "Sorry. We'll take care of thirst first, _then_ the hunger." He takes a long gulp of beer. "Let's finish up, then."

"No rush. We can do things the bartender won't notice." She shifts so that he can see directly down the front of her blouse. He nearly averts his gaze before he remembers to stay in character. He stares intently at her breasts.

"Now I _am_ getting hungry."

"And what does _this_ do for your appetite?" She begins to rub him through his trousers. "Ooh, you _were_ telling the truth on your profile, weren't you? Long, indeed."

At her touch, his mind seems to go a bit fuzzy. _Time to get down to business_. _Before it's too late_.

"I'll have to thank Paul the next time I see him."

Her hand stops moving. "Paul?"

"Yeah, Paul Garrick. He told me about you. Said he was going to have an evening with you. But I haven't seen him since last week. Was he any good? He thinks he's God's gift the way he talks."

She studies a spot on the table. "He didn't show."

"Paul missed a hot date? Did you tell the police that? They said on TV that they need any information about him."

"I don't like the police."

Hathaway has trouble reading what goes unspoken in her response. And he's having trouble focusing on what he should ask next. _Where did I mean these questions to lead?_ At last, he pulls another strand of thought from his mind.

"Did you do Henry Sawyer, too?"

Her eyes betray surprise at this question. Surprise, and something else. _Fear? Hatred?_ Hathaway's brain encounters too much fog to be certain.

He pulls out his warrant card, fumbling a little, then flipping it open for a second. "DS Hathaway, Oxfordshire Police. I'd like to ask you . . . ask you a few questions about, erm . . . last Friday night. D'you mind?" The room is sliding out of focus.

She removes her hand and pouts a little. "Does this mean we can't at least finish our beers?"

"No, go ahead, I just want to ask . . . a couple questions . . . Routine questions." Though he can't think of any. He drains his glass.

She watches him finish his beer, and smiles slowly. "I'm happy to help, James. What do you want to know?"

* * *

Lewis watches as Laura sorts the files into several piles. Then she turns to him, her natural tendency to teach taking over, and she waits until she is certain she has his full attention.

"Okay, each of these cases represents a male victim whose genitals were amputated after death. Each case is unsolved. Nearly all the victims were married. And in each, the cause of death was either stated vaguely or was something like cardiac arrest that could be mimicked by poisons. James did a nice job pulling these."

"He does good work."

"Mmm. The cases in this first pile include identified, plant-based poisons. This second pile: identified, _non_-plant-based poisons. Third pile: foreign substances were found, but not identified as poisons. And this last pile: no foreign substances were found. Garrick and Sawyer would fit in this category at this point."

"Plant-based poisons, that would include nightshade, like I had, right?"

"Absolutely. Nightshade, foxglove, apple seeds, delphinium, yew, hemlock . . ." She thinks a moment, then gets up and goes to sit at her computer. "Here, look at this."

Lewis leans in close, peering over her shoulder. Their cheeks are nearly touching. For a second, he is distracted: _Her hair smells so nice_. Then his attention returns to the computer. In a few clicks, they are looking at an online reference to poisonous plants, complete with photographs of the roots, leaves, flowers, and seeds of each. She stops on an image showing a stalk covered in beautiful, bell-like, purple flowers.

"This is foxglove. It contains digoxin and digitoxin, we test for those regularly. They both were present in these two deaths." She pulls out a couple of the files. "The poisoning looks like death by heart attack. Well, it's used to make heart medicine."

"Foxglove, I've seen that, haven't I?"

"Yes, it's quite common in gardens."

She clicks through several more plants.

Lewis grabs her arm suddenly. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Go back. Not that one, one more. That one."

The plant has beautiful white flowers. "Sea mango," she reads. "'Also known as "Suicide Tree." Contains cerberin, related to digoxin.' Not something we test for."

Lewis shakes his head as if to loosen up the thickness he feels there. "I've seen that somewhere, I'm almost sure of it." But it doesn't come, and he blows out his cheeks in frustration.

She turns to him directly. At this close range, she can see his pupils are still a bit larger than normal. _It makes him look aroused_. She shakes that thought away. "It's not found around here, Lewis. It's tropical. Are you certain this was it?"

He stares at her sadly. "Laura, I'm not certain of anything. That nightshade has me head all muddled. Are there any cases of that in here?" He waves at the files.

"In fact, there are two cases of nightshade poisoning. Neither victim was as lucky as you in getting immediate medical attention." She pulls them out. Lewis scans through the files. There is a photograph of the guilty plant, complete with shiny, purple berries. He gestures at them. "These look like gooseberries or something."

"Yes, children sometimes eat them by mistake. Did you eat any berries like that?"

"Naw, I never."

"Well what _did_ you eat Monday night?"

"Nothin' really. I had a bit of a bun, finished it up for breakfast Tuesday."

"A bun? Where did you get it?"

He narrows his eyes, thinking hard, trying to draw the memory out of his reluctant brain. "It was a current bun. Let's see, I got that bun—" He stops, mid sentence, as everything clicks into focus. "Oh, God. I picked it up at Sylvia Dawson's house. That's where I saw that suicide tree, she had one in her conservatory. Foxglove, too."

Laura's eyes are wide. "Not a current bun, Robbie. That was nightshade. The bun was poison."

"Maybe she used the wrong berries by accident."

"From what you just told me, she has a whole room full of toxic plants. I expect she knows her nightshade from her gooseberries, Inspector."

She studies the sea mango screen again. "Foxglove we'd have caught, but this cerberin we'd never notice unless we were specifically looking for some reason. Let me order that up on those two right now." She makes a quick telephone call and adds entries to the records for the two cases.

"How long, Laura?"

"Not sure, at least an hour."

"I hate to lose that much time, but I want to be certain about this before paying another visit to Sylvia Dawson."

"I'll put a rush on it."

"I'd better call Hathaway." He clicks the call through but it gets put over to voice mail. "Sergeant! Call me as soon as you can." As an afterthought, he calls for uniform to go to the Six Bells and see if Hathaway is still there.

He rolls his eyes in Hobson's direction. "James is supposed to be faking a date with a woman who may have been with Garrick Friday night. He's probably getting into some intense questioning right about now."

Then he falls silent for a long time. Without a word, Laura watches him think. At last he turns to her. "Could Sylvia Dawson be poisoning men? And if so, _why?_"

Laura also thinks a long time. "This kind of work is really beneath my pay grade, you know. But, was there anyone else who had access to the conservatory?"

"Aye, her brother. But he's a lamb, he wouldn't . . ." Yet Lewis knows he has seen more surprising things in his experience.

"Maybe she has dates and he doesn't like them. Or she has him 'take care of' men she doesn't like."

"Well, he'd be big enough to carry Sawyer up all those stairs." He contemplates some more.

"She really seemed to detest men who can't keep it in their trousers." An idea occurs to him. "Maybe Garrick and Sawyer were named as abusers at the Rape Crisis Center. She volunteers there." He checks his watch. "How much longer on those tests?"

"At least forty minutes, guv."

He's on his way out. "You'll call me either way, as soon as you know, right, love?" He hurries from the room.

Laura stares after him. _"Love"?_

* * *

As he is parking his car outside the Rape Crisis Centre, Lewis's phone buzzes. Uniform report Hathaway's car was found in the car park of the Six Bells but the Sergeant is not there. The barman reported a man fitting Hathaway's description leaving the place with a small woman and a large man. It appeared he had been drinking overmuch; the large man had to nearly carry him out. _What the hell was Hathaway doing getting drunk?_

Lewis has little success in getting answers to his questions from the director of the Centre. "I can't tell you who has been named as a perpetrator, of course. Nearly all the information we deal with is confidential, Inspector, I'm sorry. It is of greatest importance that we protect the privacy of both our clients and our volunteers. There are some very dangerous men in this City, as I'm sure you well know."

Frustrated to the point of nearly exploding, Lewis says nothing, turns on his heel, and strides back to his car. He clicks the locks open and is getting in when he hears a woman shouting behind him.

"Inspector? Inspector Lewis?"

The woman running toward him had been hovering in the background when he was talking to the Centre director. He raises his eyebrows inquisitively.

"I overheard you asking about Sylvia. Now, I understand that our records are confidential and I can't tell you anything about that. But I'm Sylvia's personal friend and I don't think it would breach any confidentiality if I tell you what I know about her personally, would it?"

He relaxes a little bit. "No, I'm sure it wouldn't, Miss . . ."

"Alice Wardell."

"What can you tell me about Sylvia, Miss Wardell?"

"Alice, please."

Lewis smiles at her encouragingly. "So. Alice. What should I know?"

"Sylvia is very good with the clients here, you know. She understands what they go through because she went through it herself. She was raped as a child."

Lewis frowns in concern. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Alice continues. "You may have met a young man, Warren . . .?"

"Ah, yes. Her brother."

"Not only her brother, Inspector. Her son, as well."

It takes him a few moments to sort this out. "Ah. Her father . . . ?"

"Yes." Alice inhales deeply. "He was put in prison for it, and Sylvia ran away and changed her name. She wanted to erase any association with him."

Alice purses her lips and continues. "Sylvia has always been very angry at men. She has made it her personal mission to seek out men who cheat on their wives. I'm not sure what exactly she does when she finds them. All she has told me is that she 'punishes' them. I've never pressed her for details and she has never volunteered any."

"How does she meet these men?"

"She lures them through the Internet. She made up a profile for herself—she showed me it, rather proudly. I was quite shocked, though I tried not to let on."

The low whine of concern that had started in Lewis's head turns into alarm bells, pounding loudly. "Oh, dear God. She's _HotNWilling_, isn't she?"

* * *

He calls for uniform backup, ordering them to use no siren or lights. As Lewis speeds to the Dawson house, his phone buzzes. Although it's not his usual habit, he flips it open as he drives: _Hobson calling_.

"Yeah, Laura?"

"It's positive. Both men were killed by cerberin."

"Laura, find out what the antidote is, and in five minutes if I haven't called you back, send an ambulance equipped with it to this address." He gives her the location of the Dawson house. Shortly after, he arrives there himself.

He pounds on the door and calls their names but there is no response. However, the door is not locked, and he bursts in, dashing through the house, coming at last to the kitchen. Sylvia flashes an angry and hate-filled glare when he flies into the room and skids to a halt.

Hathaway is sitting on the floor, leaning against the cabinets. His eyes flutter once, but after that he is still.

"Warren, cut the man's throat." Sylvia barks out the command. Warren lumbers over to Hathaway, pulling a trimming knife out of his pocket. He grabs Hathaway by the hair and pulls his head back, exposing his neck. Then he brings the blade up, moving to cut James across the windpipe.

"_No!_" Lewis gives a strangled cry and leaps toward the two men. Sylvia flies at him, throwing herself on his back and slamming something sharp between his ribs. Yelping in pain, Lewis reels and nearly collapses. Then he backs up fast, hurling them both into the wall. She hits it with a loud thump and loses her grip.

Panting at the effort, Lewis focuses on Warren, whose knife is pressed against Hathaway's throat.

"Warren, please don't do that. James is my friend. He hasn't hurt anyone."

Warren frowns in concentration. He remembers this man, remembers how kind he was.

Lewis steps slowly toward the bigger man. "It's alright Warren. You don't have to do that. Just put the knife down, please?" Lewis makes his voice as steady and soothing as he can. He's not even certain James is still alive.

"Warren! You do as you are told! He knows too much. Like that nosy bastard, Sawyer."

Warren's hand moves away no more than an inch. Lewis can see his mind struggling with the conflicting demands.

"Cut him, _NOW!_" The shriek comes from right behind Lewis, and the sudden sound makes him jump. Warren flinches at the order, but does not move.

Lewis keeps speaking quietly. "Come on, Warren. You'd like James, he's a really funny guy. He's my best friend. I'll be very sad if anything happens to hurt him." Lewis creeps closer. He is within arm's reach of the knife, but he does not look at it. He keeps his eyes on the big man.

Warren gives Lewis a tiny smile. But then a stony hardness crosses his face, and Lewis hears a whisper behind him.

"_Die, Inspector!_"

He starts to turn. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sylvia's arm raised high. Something in her hand glints and it is coming down fast. He knows he cannot get out of the way in time. He is struck hard, and it knocks the air out of his lungs and throws him to the floor. He rolls and scrambles to his feet, gasping for air and relieved to find himself alive. Two bodies lie on the floor behind him, the smaller one almost completely covered by the larger. Then Warren gets up, and Lewis can see the trimming knife hanging from the corner of the spurting slice across Sylvia's neck.

Warren turns to him, terror in his eyes, blood all over his hands, and Lewis hears a distant siren. The ambulance.

He puts his hand on Warren's big arm. "It's okay, Warren. Everything's going to be okay from now on. You won't have to do this anymore."

* * *

The bright room slowly swims into focus. Hathaway feels slightly nauseous and his head is pounding. His eyes pass around the walls and he realizes he is in a hospital, and there's a man standing there, grinning at him broadly.

"How do you feel, Sergeant?"

Hathaway smiles faintly. "That was the worst date I have ever been on. Did you catch the killer while I was off on my little lark?"

"Oh, aye. The case is over. You missed it."

"Pity. It was her, wasn't it? She'd lure unfaithful husbands and then kill them by poison, taking a trophy for herself after her brother delivered the corpse. She told me enough but she'd drugged me and I couldn't do anything. I could barely stay awake while she confessed."

He notices Lewis wince as the older man moves closer to the bed. "How did you fare, Sir?"

"A stab wound requiring a couple of stitches, that's all. Better than you."

"Yeah, what was that, some kind of poison?"

"Cerberin. Pretty nasty stuff, but you'll recover . . . from _that_." Lewis averts his eyes and Hathaway knows he has something worse to tell.

"What? What's wrong, Sir?"

"Well, the poison, that's only temporary. But, erm . . . I'm afraid . . . of course, you'll never grow back your . . . y'know." Lewis's face is full of sympathy.

Hathaway's eyes widen and he whips the bedcovers aside, his hand diving down between his legs. Nothing is missing.

"Oh, very funny, Sir." But Hathaway is too relieved to be angry. And Lewis, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes, is laughing too hard to speak.

"Just for that, you owe me a pint when I get out of here." James's attempt to look offended fails. "And another thing, I'd like to make a deal with you."

Lewis, still suppressing giggles, raises his eyebrows, interested.

"I'll stop sending you websites of women if you'll stop recommending dates for me."

"Done, James. Done."


End file.
